“That’s right, my lad, and I’d say take a good fast holt of my hair, only Ikey Gregg scissored it off so short when it turned so hot that there’s nothing to hold. But can you hyste yourself up a bit higher?”
“I’ll try, Joe; but the water drags at me so. But, Joe, what are you holding on to?”
“What they’d call a arm of the tree, sir.”
“But if I try to climb up you shan’t I drag you loose?”
“Oh, I’m no consequence, my lad. If I’m washed off I shall get hold again somewheres. Never you mind me. There’s Harry Briggs up aloft a-reaching down a couple of his hands. If you feel you’ve got stuff enough in you.—Take your time over it, my lad—you see if you can’t swarm a bit up me and then stretch up and think you are at home trying to pick apples, till Harry gets a big grip of your wristies; and then you ought to be able to swarm up him. Now then, do you think you can try?”
“Yes, Joe; I think so,” panted the boy. “That’s right, my lad. I’d give you a lift, only I can’t, for I’m in rotten anchorage, and we mustn’t get adrift.”
About a minute passed, in which little was heard but the whishing of the water through the leaves and twigs, and the sound of hard breathing. Then Joe spoke again—
“I don’t want to hurry you, my lad, but if you think you can manage it I’d say, begin.”
“I’m ready now, Joe,” said the boy faintly. “But do you think you can hold on?”
“Aren’t got time to think, my lad. You go on and do it. That’s your job, and don’t you think as it’s a hard ’un. Just you fancy the doctor’s yonder getting anxious about you, and then—up you goes.”